


D is for Dirty Secrets

by cowboykylux



Series: Mind & Soul 'Verse [9]
Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Cheating, Claiming, Come Shot, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Morning Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Positions, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25551787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: He marks you up like he owns you, not that anyone could ever truly own you. But he marks you like he does, marks you to lay his claim, proof that he was there. Proof, so that when this is over and he has to pretend to come home from a long night working at a buddy’s house, he’ll know it wasn’t a dream.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Reader, Charlie Barber/You
Series: Mind & Soul 'Verse [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564099
Kudos: 15





	D is for Dirty Secrets

“More – please!” You gasp, fingers knotted in his hair.

Charlie fucks you, hard. He’s not shy about it, you don’t want him to be. You don’t want him to be shy about anything every again, not around you, not around anyone. You’re dangerous that way, he thinks, dangerously freeing in a way he hadn’t ever thought he could be. He’s at your place, in your bed, against your skin.

“Like that?” He asks, bites down on your jaw, your chin, “Like it like that?”

He fucks you, makes the bed squeak creak groan, makes you moan. He’s obsessed with the sound of your moan, swallows it down when he smothers your mouth under his. Your tight cunt grips his cock, and it makes him swear, makes him curse loud, makes him grab the headboard with a white knuckle grip.

He tries not to look at the wedding band on his finger, tries to resist the urge to yank it off and throw it away. He doesn’t want it, doesn’t want her. He wants you.

“Yes! Yesyesyes – oh fuck, oh Charlie – !” Your back arches up for him, mouth dropped open, eyes shut tight because you can’t do anything else but hold on.

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hands splayed out on his sides as he grinds his hips flush against yours, makes you gasp and choke on your own spit, he spits in your mouth. You swallow it, swallow it the same way you’d swallowed his come not long ago, a blowjob that had woken him up, gave him a real good morning.

“Charlie please – please more faster harder more – yes yes yes – please – ” You can’t make a full sentence, the words punched out of you with his cock.

Charlie wants to close his eyes and revel in the feeling, but he loves the sight of you too much, the sight of your face wrecked from sweat and tears as he rails you, makes you whine and choke and beg for him. He drowns in your begging.

You give as good as you get, when he lets you. When he flips you onto your stomach and you prop yourself up on your hands and knees, when you push back to meet each one of his thrusts, you give it. He smacks your ass hard, watches the flesh ripple for him, watches as you tremble and shiver under the force of his cock as it drools inside your pussy.

He wants so much, he’s selfish. He’s so selfish. He wants your face your tits your ass your heart your smile your laugh…he wants it. You give it to him, all of it, just as good as you get. He wishes you got more, he wishes he could give you more. He smacks you again, your thigh this time, and you keen for it, for him. Your cunt makes the sweetest sounds, and it’s all he can hear. Not the traffic outside, not the bluebirds just beyond the window, not the alarm next door in his house where his wife is waking up.

He’s grateful for your closed curtains, grateful for the hand that muffles your shouts of pleasure when they come, grateful for your willingness to keep this a secret – it has to be a secret, it has to be. It has to, for now, but he hopes soon, once the ink has dried and he can throw the ring in a drawer, it won’t be.

He fucks you hard, bruises your thighs, sucks marks onto your neck chest tits thighs. He marks you up like he owns you, not that anyone could ever truly own you. But he marks you like he does, marks you to lay his claim, proof that he was there.

Proof, so that when this is over and he has to pretend to come home from a long night working at a buddy’s house, he’ll know it wasn’t a dream.

“I’m so – so fucking close,” He grunts, groans, begs, pleads, desperate for you.

You’re a dream, the way he fucks you, the way you take him so steadily, take everything he throws at you. You ask for it, ask for more, and he gives it, he wants to give you everything.

When you come, you come together. He doesn’t know if you’ve had sex so often together that now his cock just knows, or if you hold out for him, hold out so that you can crash from this high together, he doesn’t know. But like so many other things about you, he’s grateful. He loves you.

He pulls out and paints you with his come, watches as it falls across your stomach, hits your tits. You always did say he had a big load. You rub your fingers through it, smearing it across your skin, and another hot rope of sticky white forces its way out of his cock from the very sight.

Your breathing is heavy, chest heaving, but you’re smiling. The kind of smile that he feels he gives you all the time – starry-eyed, adoring. He adores you. He kisses you, before collapsing on top of you, your hands lightly smacking the sides of his rib cage as a silent praise for a job well done.

“Coffee?” You ask eventually, because you know he’ll need it.

“I’ll make the eggs.” He replies, because he wants to stay longer than a single cup ‘o Joe.

And somehow, despite it all – despite the spit and the come, despite making the bed rock and making the shocks squeak and making the birds fly away from the window with your loud cries of pleasure – this simple act of you standing in a sleep-shirt pouring him a cup of coffee, and him flipping your eggs in his boxers feels like the filthiest thing he’s ever done.

He leans in to kiss you, a smile against a smile, and he hates himself for it. You clink a mug against his own, and when you both take a sip of the hot brew, he tells himself soon, soon you won’t be his dirty little secret anymore.


End file.
